


2.0

by bonebo



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Mad King Ryan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd been pried kicking and clawing off the throne, and cast away, into a world of shadows and screams.</p><p>Now he was back, and he would have his vengeance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	2.0

He had been a King, once.

His fall from grace had been exactly that—a fall. Down and down he'd plunged, screaming straight toward the center of the earth and the Hell beyond, and it was only when he came to a crashing halt in a world of red and black and fire that he realized just how low he had been brought.

But he hadn't expected to _stay_ there.

For months and months—what felt like a _lifetime_ , or even two or three—he paced the same rough red ground, sealed off inside his house of iron and waiting for the cries of the monsters to fade; for even longer did the sounds reverberate inside his head, echoing and intensifying until they were everywhere all the time, constant background music for his spiral into decay. Claws sprouted from the shadows on the walls, reaching out for him when his back was turned, and every night he awoke with his own screaming ringing in his ears, and he swore he'd die here, alone in this metal box with nothing but his insanity for company.

But then came the day where he peeked out his front door to see a flickering purple hue, and his breath left him in disbelief—but as he stared the image stayed, solid obsidian walls and the portal swirling within, and he didn't spare a thought for his safety as he bolted across the bloodsoaked ground toward redemption.

_____

The surface world was brighter than he remembered, he realized, as he stepped out into the glaring light of dusk.

Ryan had to squint as he slowly stalked through the woods, everything in him tense and alert—it was a force of habit, by now, something his body did with no conscious urging on his end.

(In its brutality the Nether had taught him much about the constant fight between life and death. There was always a hunt going on, always a predator searching for a kill.)

He found one chest before night fell, a dusty old thing he'd tucked away in a cave _just in case_ —and when he popped the chest open and reached inside his fingers brushed cool metal, and memories of bloodlust and battle and victory washed over him. He was all but gleeful as he pulled the iron axe from the chest, giving it a few practice swings in the dimming light.

(This time, finally, he refused to be the prey.)

____

Dawn found Ryan crouched and waiting outside the palace doors—sneaking in through the gate hadn't been hard at night, and the shadows had provided excellent cover as he crept through the quiet town—with his axe in hand, iron armor strapped in place. He knew that he didn't have to wait, not really; after all, how long had he ruled this kingdom? He knew every secret entrance the palace had, and had he desired to make his execution quick and quiet he could've.

But that was just it—what was the point of slaughter, if not for it to be known and recognized?

So he waited for the morning guards to come open the palace doors, and with a screech he leapt. The axe made quick work of their flesh and he grinned as the blade became edged with crimson, made sure to step in the growing puddle of blood as he walked over their bodies.

He left a trail of bloody footprints as he walked toward the throne room. He had nothing to hide.

The next guards he found were just as pliant as the first set, all slack-jawed at the return of their king— _the_ king, the only _true_ ruler of this place—but their shocked admiration did nothing to quell the force behind his swings. As their heads rolled down the hall he chuckled.

Five more guards met his axe, and five more fell—why the defenses hadn't been raised yet, Ryan did not know. In _his_ kingdom, under _his_ rule, the security would never be so slack; ah, but he had so much work to do, to restore the palace to its former glory. So much tidying up.

And he would start at the top of the pile, he decided, throwing open the door to the throne room.

He was met with a sight he immediately despised; there was the warrior brat, sitting upon Ryan's rightful throne, with Ryan's beautiful crown atop his stupid head. Michael immediately leapt to his feet as Ryan stalked over, and drew the diamond sword from his belt, face set in a grim line.

So he would fight. Good.

“The fuck are you doing here, Haywood?” Michael spat, eyes narrowed and shoulders tensed; Ryan halted a few feet from the throne, tilting his head at the image presented before him.

“I'm here to claim what's mine.” Ryan shifted the axe in his hand—he was sure Mogar could see the blood upon the blade, and he took delight in the way the false king's face paled. “And I will have it. The only variable is how much blood must be shed.”

“You're out of your goddamn mind if you think I'm letting you take the throne.” Michael took a cautious step forward, his grip on his sword tightening. “Actually, fuck that—you're out of your mind anyway. You're fucking crazy, Haywood.”

“Am I?” Ryan licked his lips, feeling his blood sing—the crown called to him, beckoning for his touch, crying for blood. Ryan did not intend to deny it. “Am I, Jones? Then why don't you relinquish what was never yours, and kneel before your mad king?”

Michael opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated, eyes flicking past Ryan; his expression immediately blanched, a look of fright upon his face before he could conceal it again, and it was enough to make Ryan glance over his shoulder.

His lips parted in a smile that showed his teeth, and the look was enough to make the jester that stood not a foot away, ridiculous golden boots upon his feet, take a step back.

“Of course.” Ryan looked back to Michael, leering. “I wonder...” 

Michael's eyes widened, horror dawning upon his face. “Gavin! Run!”

But before Gavin could even move, Ryan was there, grabbing his sleeve in an impossibly strong grip; he jerked the jester forward and shoved him down, holding him on his knees as he pressed the axe handle to his throat. 

“Well.” Ryan grinned at Michael, feeling himself quiver with excitement. He was so _close_. “It seems your priorities have changed a bit, eh, Mogar?”

“Ryan...” Michael hesitated, biting his lip. “...let him go. You know he has nothing to do with this. Let him go and fight me—man on man. King versus king.”

Ryan let out a harsh, barking laugh at that, pressing the axe handle a little harder into Gavin's throat just to hear him choke. “I think not! He has _everything_ to do with this, doesn't he? He's your little boy, remember? Your precious little _Gavvy-wavvy_.” He spat the pet name like poison—like bile, as he clenched a fist in Gavin's hair. “And he's also the reason why I lost my throne.”

“No.” Michael was trying to hide his mounting panic, Ryan knew. “No, Ryan, he's not—he had nothing to do with—“

“You don't know what it's like!” The words burst from him before he could contain them, and Ryan was leaning forward, heart slamming in his chest, blood racing hot. “To be trapped down there, in that—that hell! To have to listen to the screaming of monsters every hour of every day, to have to battle for your life every time you stepped foot outside your house! To have nothing and no one, to starve and go thirsty and stay awake for days—“

“Ryan,” Michael started, edging forward cautiously, “It's alright, look—“

“ _No!_ ” He jerked the axe as he screamed, and Gavin's yelp was enough to make Michael freeze in his tracks; Ryan didn't bother looking down, for he knew the cut had been minor. “It's _not_ alright! It will _not_ be alright!”

_Not until I am back on the throne._

“Fine!” Michael threw his sword down, diamond clattering along the marble floor; he looked at Ryan anxiously. “Fine, take—take the goddamn throne! Be king again! Just—for the love of God, Ryan, let Gavin go!”

Ryan glanced between Mogar's face and the sword on the ground, and after a moment, nodded stiffly; he released Gavin and removed the handle from his throat, watching as the jester scrambled up and ran to Michael.

_Fool._

For it was not a heartbeat later that Ryan was charging, and all it took was one strong swipe—then Gavin was falling, and Gavin was bleeding, and Michael was screaming. Ryan watched the body as it crumbled, axe still embedded in the side, dark blood spurting onto the floor, and swiftly he turned; Michael's sword was in his hand as he swung back around, holding the blade out just as Mogar had started to lunge at him.

“Ah.” Ryan smiled, nudging the sword forward, against Michael's throat; the warrior king didn't move, bearing the pain. He glared at Ryan with all the hatred in the world, his shoulders shaking.

“You're a monster,” Michael spat, eyes narrowed and wet; at the accusation Ryan tilted his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. 

“A monster? No, Mogar,” he whispered, voice serene as he jammed the sword out—Michael's eyes widened, a choked gasp leaving him, and now Ryan couldn't stop his grin as he felt the hate in Michael's blood streaking down his arms. After a heartbeat he withdrew his blade, waiting until the warrior's body slumped to the ground before he bent down and plucked the— _coveted precious requisite bloodstained_ —crown from its nest of curls.

The gold settled onto his head, and Ryan closed his eyes, savoring his words as he spoke.

_”I am a king.”_


End file.
